Behind the Clockface of Big Ben
by Goesto11
Summary: Something horrible happens to Sherlock. Can John save him in time behind the clock face of Big Ben?


**Couple things:1. I'm not very good at writing romance, so don't judge me. Ha.**

**2\. Happy (late) Valentine's Day peeps.**

**3\. This is dedicated to a friend of mine who adores Johnlock, is single, and needs a pick-me-up. She's awesome, so happy Valentine's friend-who-shall-remain-unnamed.**

**-oOo-**

The gun still smoked from when he shot it not a minute ago. Sherlock kept his breathing in check as he ran up the spiral stairs of Big Ben, occasionally getting a glance of the London skyline. But that didn't matter to him at the current moment. He was in a high-speed chase with one of the people that had hired Moriarty to cover up for him.

The bear of a man, Thomas Brown, had committed a series of murders, involving him hanging the corpses to the ceiling….by their ankles. It was easy in his opinion to figure out it was him. By his opinion, that meant that no one else, not even John could figure it out. Mr. Brown was neat in his work. _To _neat, making everything look perfect, then forget about leaving his own footprints in his victim's homes. Moriarty did an awful job at covering for him.

_The idiot. _Sherlock thought. He chanced at small glance behind him. _Where the bloody Hell was John?_

No matter. He broke off into a sprint as he neared the top of the famous clock tower, gradually closing in on the huffing murderer. In the tight space, he heard the echoing click of a cocked gun. Sherlock dove behind a large pillar for cover. Three shots ricocheted off of the pillar then the supremely different click of an empty magazine.

"Sherlock?!" He had heard John's cry, but chose to save his breath and continue the chase. He ran up the final stairs and pushed through sheets of plastic, ducking behind pillars, eyes scanning the surroundings for the man.

It wasn't his eyes that found Mr. Brown, but his ears. There was squeaking of metal and a sharp _whoosh_ as wind came through a window. No, one of the clock face doors.

The detective pushed through the dust and saw Thomas quivering, his hand shaking violently, making the pistol rattle. There were beads of sweat trickling down the man's brow as he took an unsteady step towards the window. Sherlock held a hand up in a feint attempt to calm the serial killer.

"Now, Thomas, let's think about this. If you come with me now, you won't be hanged, I promise." The man only chuckled as he slowly reached a hand behind his back.

"That's not how it works Mr. Holmes. You see, if I turn myself in, then he kills me. But, if I kill one more person, my sister gets a bonus of five-hundred thousand pounds." Thomas then revealed what he was reaching for.

_Well, that is one thing I wasn't expecting._

In the murderer's hands was a stun gun. Sherlock could see that the level was turned up to 100%, fatal if shot.

"See you in another life, brother." There was no time to dive for cover, much less get out of the way was Mr. Brown pulled the trigger and shot Sherlock.

He felt no pain at first as the metal needled shoved into his torso, through his shirt. Then there was buzzing in his head and body, and it felt like he was on _fire_. He contorted his face in pain as his muscles began to involuntarily spasm.

He collapsed into a twitching heap on the wood floor. He barely saw Thomas jump out of the window and onto the street below, and the pounding of footsteps as he passed out. There was white that dotted his vision, then his heart chose to stop.

**-oOo-**

"I'm going to bloody murder that bastard if this Brown doesn't kill him first."

John had just heard the three shots form a hand-gun, had had sucked in more air and sprinted the last steps of Big Ben. As he reached the top, he took out his own gun and held it out in front of him in one, well-practiced motion.

He pushed through the flapping plastic, his feet making the boards under his feet creak.

"Sherlock?" No answer. "Sherlock, answer me, dammit." If Thomas was here, he would be dead, so he holstered his pistol and wove around the giant bell. But what he found made him freeze, despite his training as doctor.

"Oh God, Sherlock? No, no, no, I was joking!" There, in front of him was the body of his best friend, unconscious. John shook his head to clear his thoughts (primarily of stabbing Thomas over and over), and bent down beside the detective.

He held is ear over the nose and mouth, while a hand checked a wrist for a pulse. Nothing.

"Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit, Sherlock, dammit to bloody Hell!" He clasped his hand together and began chest compressions. There were a couple pops as Sherlock's ribs dislocated, each one making John Watson cringe.

_…__27, 28, 29, 30._

He bent down, and pinched the sociopath's nose and breathed twice into his mouth. HE lingered for half a second trying to-

_Cut it out, John, you're giving CPR._ He told himself. Be began pumping his fists on Sherlock's chest.

"Come on. You died once, don't do it again."

_…__27, 28, 29, 30._

He bent down again for the two breathes. He did one, then sucked in air for a second. He pressed his mouth to Sherlock's to give the second.

There was an unceremonious hiss as Sherlock sucked in a breath of life….with John's startled face pressed into his. He groaned then pushed on John's chest, shoving him away. Sherlock clasped his chest, checking for a beating heart, then flattened his static-y hair. He looked at the flustered John and frowned.

"Were you kissing me?"

"God, no."

"You were kissing me."

"No I was not, Sherlock."

"You were."

"No I was not."

"You were." Pause.

"Okay just a little." Sherlock chuckled. "Oi, you had no pulse so I had to do CPR." The doctor crossed his arms like a child.

"I liked it."

"Yes, Sherlock, I had to give you mouth-to-mouth and had to dislocate- wait what?"

"Are you deaf, John?" He asked, which came out as a sort of sneer. John was too shocked to answer. He just sat there in front of Sherlock, his mind not being able to pick an emotion. "John?"

"Huh?" He squeaked. Sherlock shifted closer to the doctor, concern crossing his chiseled face.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean to offend you." John got over his surprise and frowned back.

"You. You are sorry?" Sherlock again scooted closer, clutching his ribs, and nodded.

"I am." They were, literally, inches from each other now, and slowly leaning closer. "Happy Valentine's Day, John."

"Happy Valentine's Day, Sherlock."

No words. Just fireworks.


End file.
